


At The Broken Bell

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Prompt Fic, fragment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-28 04:49:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7624858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson goes into a tavern. Chapters written in response to various prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At the Broken Bell

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Sorry everyone; it's too hot, and I'm too tired, so this is more of a fragment than anything else. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own them.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson walks into a tavern. Written for JWP 29: Arr! Arr! ARRR! Arr! Arr!

It was far from the worst watering-place down by the docks. By local standards, I imagined The Broken Bell was counted as a respectable tavern; but it was definitely a local establishment, and I was no local. Conversation went on without much disruption as I entered, but I felt multiple eyes on me as I made my way to the bar.  
  
“Haven’t seen you here before,” the barkeep said with a gruff sort of curiosity that might have passed for hospitality as he handed me my pint.  
  
“No, I’ve not been here,” I agreed, not volunteering any other information.  
  
The man grunted and moved on to serve two others, but I noticed him keeping a weather eye on me all the while. It made sense for a man in his line of work to take notice of anything or anyone that might cause trouble, and a stranger could be trouble, or bring trouble, just by his very presence.  
  
I was not looking for trouble, but from the way the tavern fell quiet, trouble had come calling. Behind the bar, the barkeep’s mouth set in a grim line as he watched the rough-clad, sun-bronzed sailor walk towards the bar. “Evening, Captain,” he offered nonetheless.  
  
The tall, dark-bearded man gave him a curt nod, but his attention remained on me. “I see you came after all.”  
  
I kept my temper despite the insult implicit in his words. “I am a man of my word, Captain Basil.”  
  
The sailor made a low sound, neither agreement nor disagreement. “That remains to be seen. But on your honour then. Follow me.”  
  
He turned and strode out of The Broken Bell, never pausing to look back to see if I would follow.  
  
I did.


	2. At the Southend Docks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson goes to the docks in unsavoury company. A follow-on to At the Broken Bell. Written for the following three amnesty prompts:  
>  \- The Sea! An adventure on the sea, at the sea, or under the sea. Granted, Captain Watson isn't a navy captain, but still...  
>  \- The show at the end of the pier.  
> \- Genre Shift: Sherlock Holmes as any genre other than mystery/crime drama. (E.G. musical, romantic comedy, sci-fi, horror...) I'll name my genre at the end, in case you haven't figured it out already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This is still more fragmentary than anything else, although at least there's some action. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own them.

As Holmes gladly tells anyone when the opportunity arises, I have no talent for dissimulation. I have chronicled as much myself with my own pen.  
  
This is something of a lie; a deliberate one, fostered for my own protection as well as others, Holmes not least.  
  
I am no master of disguise, as Holmes is; nor can I convincingly play a variety of roles or characters. But I can, and often have, convincingly acted a part when necessary in one of Holmes’ cases. I certainly have enough first-hand knowledge to play a military veteran down on his luck, or an unwise gambler, or a bitter fellow at odds with his more-favoured sibling, or an unhappy lover unfortunate in his affections, as well as a doctor or medic of varying skill or qualifications. I can answer to Jack or James or Ormond or Henry or Bob as easily as John. As long as there is something I can relate to in the personage, I can play whatever minor part Holmes requires with a reasonable chance of success.  
  
Allowing myself – which is to say Jack Williams, a third-rate doctor with gambling debts and a questionable past – to be coerced (not quite shanghaied, although it came close to it) aboard Captain Basil’s vessel was simple enough. Enduring the cold, untrusting stares, verbal abuse, and occasional physical roughness of the crew was unpleasant, but expected, and I reacted as much as Jack Williams might be expected to do. My conduct towards Captain Basil himself was more of a matter of allowing everyone to see how uneasy he made me feel than anything else. There was something about the man that set me on edge, despite Holmes’ assurances beforehand that I could trust Captain Basil to keep to his bargain and bring me safely back to London once the case was done.  
  
My horror at seeing the cargo of the other ship was completely unfeigned. Those starving, filthy, cowed girls, with tell-tale marks of every kind of abuse on their scantily-clad bodies, was enough to rattle the calm of Basil’s hardened crew, much less a paltry fellow like Williams. I made a show of my disgust there at the end of the pier, turning my moral outrage at the proposed fate of these poor creatures into a snivelling coward’s bravado. I even made a few of Basil’s crew growl and chuckle appreciatively when I declared that no Englishman would bother to tup any of the girls in their current condition for free, much less pay for the privilege.  
  
I was not entirely surprised when the situation turned to violence, or that the other captain had evidently planned treachery all along. Not only did the other crew attack, but toughs sprang out all along the pier. Their intention – kill us all, seize Basil’s ship – was as clear as any pirate’s in any boy’s adventure story. I was surprised at the skill and ferocity shown by Basil’s men in battling them back, and with Basil’s cool command in directing his men.  
  
I did not have to act at all when the bullet slammed into my leg. Jack Williams or John Watson – it made no difference to the blazing pain, or the long fall from the pier into the cold waters of the North Sea.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted August 7, 2016
> 
> Author's note: I picked that long-favourite genre of mine, the radio-serial drama with a cliffhanger ending. Tune in next week* for another great episode, folks!
> 
> *might take me more than a week...but I won't leave Watson hanging (er, shot and drowning) forever.


	3. At the Shore's Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson struggles. Written for the September prompt on Watson's Woes: secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This is still more fragmentary than anything else, and strange to boot. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own them.

_Pain is no friend of mine, but I have a long acquaintance with it all the same_. A strange thought to have as I became aware, yet there it was. I wondered why.  
  
I recognized pain as I hovered on the edge of consciousness. My thoughts were logy, slow, and scrambled by the agony coursing through me. I tried to marshal them, even as I struggled to fully awaken.  
  
I knew this pain, the various incarnations of what I now suffered.  
  
Why?  
  
Bruises, cuts, sprains, and even broken bones are all things any reasonably active fellow might experience over the course of an adventurous childhood or years spent on school playing-fields. I was reasonably certain that was why I knew how to interpret some of the pain as one of the bones in my forearm being cracked, the skin over the knuckles on both hands as abraded and bruised, and that one elbow was strained to the point of sprain.  
  
Then again, I could not force my blurred mind to recall playing any sports, or anything about my childhood. I might be imagining those things, but I did not imagine the injuries, trivial though they were in light of my greater hurts.  
  
I had been shot.  
  
I knew what flesh and bone felt like when ravaged and shattered by a bullet. I knew it to the depths of my being, though I could not remember why I knew such a thing. My leg howled with that same soul-searing, mind-numbing pain.  
  
Presumably I had been shot sometime before, and survived the experience. So perhaps I would survive this, too, though the pain was unbearable, and I could feel fever eating away at me along with the pain.  
  
Oh. Fever. Yes, I knew that too. I had burned in this fire before, nearly perished in its flames.  
  
Was I dying now? Was that why my chest felt so heavy, why it hurt to breathe? What was happening to me?  
  
Why couldn’t I remember what had happened to bring me to this state?  
  
Why couldn’t I open my eyes?  
  
My eyelids continued to refuse my commands, but my other senses functioned after a fashion. I still _felt_ , all too well. And there were sounds. Creaking. A splash – no, a dripping sort of sound.  
  
A voice.  
  
“How does he, Jacobs?”  
  
Did I know that voice? It seemed strange and familiar all at once.  
  
“The bleedin’s stopped, Cap’n, but th’ wound’s already fevered.”  
  
Cap’n? Captain. Captain Basil. The name floated to the surface of my mind, bringing a faint tide of memory at long last.  
  
“An’ ‘e swallowed half th’ briny afore Alec fished ‘im out.”  
  
I did not recognize the other voice, but I knew the accent, understood what his words meant. Wound-fever. Drowning, or near enough to it. A dire combination, congestion in the lungs and an infected gunshot wound, as I well knew.  
  
Why did I know that?  
  
“I’m tryin’ to keep ‘im cool, but the sooner we bring ‘im t’ shore, th’ better.”  
  
“That’s a few hours yet. Go get yourself a bite from the cook, then keep tending Williams until we make landfall.”  
  
Williams? That wasn’t right.  
  
“Aye Cap’n.” Soft sounds of retreat.  
  
A light touch to my aching, fevered brow, startling and strangely soothing all at once.  
  
“Watson.”  
  
I knew that name. I knew that voice. I knew that touch, that long-fingered hand resting ever so lightly against my skin.  
  
“Hang on, my dear man.”  
  
I was Watson, John Watson. And that was Holmes’ touch, Holmes’ voice, commanding as always, yet with a pleading note that could not be.  
  
_He_ could not be.  
  
Holmes was not here. And Watson…Watson was a secret. Williams, not Watson, was the name I must answer to.  
  
I heard his voice/not-his-voice speak again, a few soft, impossible words.  Every fibre of my being wanted to respond to him as I had always done, but I must not. He – his presence, his words - all was a product of fever and wishing, not real.  
  
Danger. Secret.  
  
I refused the order and let myself fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted September 29, 2016


	4. At the Brink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't recognize where he is, but he knows he is in danger. Written for JWP 2018 #16 in response to a musical prompt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Apparently listening to today's musical prompt sent me back two years to this vaguely-ongoing story. There is whumpage in progress. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.  
> Author's Note: Written for the following prompt: Musical prompt: [Cold (instrumental for violin and piano)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pUZeSYsU0Uk&feature=youtu.be). I cannot tell you what this prompt has to do with this story, except listening to the one caused the other.

There was a wrong note, somewhere. And it kept being wrong, kept sounding. That was the first thing I became aware of. Confused, I opened my eyes.  
  
I was alone.   
  
I did not recognize the room. I did not recognize the blankets covering me, leaving me sweltering. I did not recognize the bed. I finally recognized the sound as a bell, repeatedly sounding at intervals.  
  
I was on a ship.  
  
I had vague recollections of a journey, of water. Of not liking my captain. Of not being liked by his crew.  
  
There was something I was forgetting. I wished I could take time to remember whatever it was, but I needed to get away. There was danger here.  
  
My leg hurt a great deal when I tried to stand on it, but I could cope with pain. I limped my way to the doorway as fast as I could. My leg and chest both ached with the effort.  
  
I saw no one as I made my way up to the deck. We were surrounded by fog, but not so thickly that I missed seeing that we were at rest, sails furled, tied up to a dock.   
  
“Jack!”  
  
I turned at the sound of my name. Two sailors came across the deck towards me. They looked vaguely familiar.  
  
“What are you doing up, man? You were shot in the leg!” one cried.  
  
“And nearly drowned to boot,” the other man agreed. Strangely, neither of them seemed hostile. I did not remember having any friends on this ship.  
  
“It’s not so bad,” I muttered, staggering towards the gangplank that led off this ship and possibly safety. “I just need a pint or three.”  
  
The two men laughed, and one clapped me on the back. “You’re still no sailor, but maybe you’re not all bad after all, Jack Williams,” the first man chortled. “Any fellow who gets up after all that and goes in search of a drink has some merit to him. Come on then. I’ll even stand you to the first pint.”  
  
I did not trust them, but I took the chance they offered. They helped me down the gangplank with half-affectionate abuse at my stumbling, painful gait and paltry balance. Within minutes, we had disappeared into the fog, leaving the ship behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted July 16, 2018.


	5. At the Lantern Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All he wanted was a pint. Well, and to escape. Written for JWP 2018 #17.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Still another entry for this vaguely-ongoing story. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.  
> Author's Note: Written for the following prompt: Hats Hats Hats! Let the art of the haberdasher and milliner inspire you today. Bonus point if you include a picture of a hat that inspired your work! I was inspired by the hat in the [user icon](https://v.dreamwidth.org/11254761/2790808), but also [this one](http://www.johnsteedsflat.com/images/bowlerbrown3winged%20%283%29.jpg).

As we made our way through the fog, I realized I did not know the names of either of my two unwanted companions. Either I’d never learned them, or I’d forgotten.  
  
I seemed to have forgotten a great deal. My head ached, my breathing was laboured, and my leg was agony, and I did not even know what city I was in, or what country. I was hardly certain of my own name, or if I had a coin to it.   
  
I wanted to be away from the two sailors, but I found myself glad nonetheless for their support as I limped along in their company. One of them, whom I overheard called Pete by the other, even lent me his arm for the last stretch. He complained all the while that I was keeping them from their drink, but in a funny way it seemed a rough kind of encouragement, all of a piece with their earlier behaviour.   
  
I did not understand their motives. And what I did not understand, I could not trust.  
  
The sign above the tavern door showed an improbably buxom woman holding up a lighted lantern. There were no words on the sign. From the looks of the men inside, I doubted a quarter of them could have read them if there were. This was a rough place. Loud conversations were being held in several languages, but there was more English than anything else. That was good.  
  
Pete guided me to a half-empty table while his friend made his way to the heavily-scarred bar. He came back with three foaming pints, and set one down in front of me. “Here, just like I said. And Pete here will buy the second.”  
  
“Hey! I never said any such thing!”  
  
“You laughed the loudest when ol’ Jack here gave those arses what for.” The other man peered at me. “And Jack looks like he needs at least two pints to put the blood back in ‘im. Drink up, man.”  
  
“Thanks,” I grunted. The ale was weak and bitter, probably watered down, but a single sip woke a raging thirst. I gulped several more swallows.  
  
“Easy, man, or we’ll have to carry you back to the ship!” Pete exclaimed. “You’re none too steady on your pins now.”  
  
I realized he was right, and more than right. If I had any hope of slipping away from these two and escaping the Captain’s reach – Captain Basil, that was his name – I had to keep my wits about me as much as possible. I forced myself to take only small sips, and pretend interest in the conversation of the other two. If nothing else, I might learn what they were really after.  
  
More men crowded in. The crowd got noisier. But I felt colder, not warmer, despite the press of bodies. The watered ale churned uneasily in my stomach.  
  
I was about to excuse myself to go outside and empty my bladder – and maybe make my escape – when there was a sudden surge of bodies at the door, angry shouts, and the sound of multiple whistles. Something inside me jumped at that particular sound, and not in the way that my companions startled in alarm.   
  
“It’s a raid!” Pete yelled.   
  
“I can’t run,” I ground out through gritted teeth, “and I don’t think they’re here for me. Get out of here if you can. I’ll take my chances.”   
  
Pete and his friend didn’t hesitate to take my words to heart. They vanished into the crowd attempting to rush out.   
  
Fighting broke out all around as blue-caped bobbies swarmed in and lashed out with their billy-clubs at a particular knot of men. Here searching for someone in particular, I thought to myself, then wondered why I was so sure of it. I kept sipping my pint as casually as I could. A thrown tankard flew right by my head, ruffling my hair. I realized I wasn’t wearing a hat, and for a moment, I felt as if I was naked in public. I always wore a hat when I went out – a brown bowler, usually, but there were others…  
  
There was something I was forgetting. Something to do with hats, and wearing them.  
  
“Here, you! What do you think you’re doing, eh?”  
  
The voice, young but stern, jolted me out of my thoughts. I realized the fighting was largely over. The place was more than half empty. Bobbies had darbies on several men, and were hauling their struggling forms out of the door.   
  
“Drinking my ale,” I told the bobby looming over me.  
  
His eyes widened, and he ran one finger across one edge of his moustache. “Well, y’can’t drink here. This place is closed.” He frowned. “What’s your name?”  
  
“Jack,” I answered at once. When that caused him to frown even more, I added “Jack Williams.”  
  
The bobby took a quick glance around to either side, as if to see who might be nearby. If anything, his scowl grew darker as he took in the remaining policemen and their catches. “Right. Well, Jack Williams, you’re coming along with us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted July 17, 2018.


	6. At St Mary's Street Station

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two men walk into a police station. Written for JWP 2018 #27.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still another entry for this vaguely-ongoing story. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.  
> Author's Note: Written for the following prompt: Treasure Island. A character has lost something they value. I stretched a point, but I think readers will forgive it.

Sea-captains were no strange sight in Southampton, but the presence of one in a police-station, walking in under his own power rather than escorted by a bobby, was rather more unusual. The clerk at the desk narrowed his eyes at the tall, dark-bearded, bronze-skinned man came striding up with an air of unquestionable authority.  
  
“I’ve heard you’ve one of my crew here on lockup,” the man said brusquely, but calmly enough. “I’m Captain Basil. My man was arrested late last night at The Lantern Lady. Name of Jack Williams.”  
  
The clerk grimaced at the name of one of the more notorious establishments in their part of the docks. “I’ll check the logs. If you’ll wait here, sir.”  
  
The captain stepped back and appeared to lose interest for the moment, contemplating instead a variety of hand-bills posted on the station wall. The clerk consulted his book, and shortly a runner-boy disappeared into the depths of the station. A short time later, the boy returned with a uniformed officer in tow.  
  
“I’m Constable Thomas,” the young man said, eyeing the captain with suspicion. “I’m told you’re here about one of your sailors, eh?”  
  
“He’s no sailor, but he’s one of my crew right enough,” Captain Basil corrected. “Jack Williams. Two of my crewmen reported leaving him last night at the Lantern Lady. I’m told the place was raided by you lot, and he was taken in. He’s not reported for duty, so I’ve come looking for him.”  
  
“I see. And has he been a part of your crew for long?”  
  
Captain Basil frowned mightily. “How does that matter?”  
  
“I’m just trying to get a feel for the facts.” Constable Thomas’ frown matched Captain Basil’s, and his moustache twitched as his lip curled. “Well, I’m sorry you’ve been to this trouble for naught. There’s no Jack Williams here.” His brown eyes were steady and hard as he stared at the captain.  
  
The captain glared, then harrumphed loudly. “Then I’ve wasted enough time. Good day, Constable.” He spun on his heel and strode rapidly out of the station.  
  
Forty-five minutes later, a thin, clean-shaven gentleman arrived at St Mary’s station. “I’m here to see Constable Thomas, if he’s available.” He handed the clerk a card.  
  
The clerk glanced at the name, and lost no time sending the runner-boy. Constable Thomas arrived in near-record time. “Mr Holmes!” he exclaimed, shaking the man’s hand. “I only sent my wire a few hours ago. How did you get here so quickly?”  
  
“I was in the area,” Holmes replied. “Fortunately I have provisions in place for having important messages forwarded to me when I’m away from London.”   
  
“Of course.” He looked around, then gestured towards the station door. “But this is no place to talk business. If you’ll follow me?”  
  
“I hoped you were near to hand,” Constable Thomas muttered quietly once he was relatively sure they were out of casual earshot. “You likely won’t remember me, but I remember you, sir, from the _Seastar_ smuggling matter a year back, and Doctor Watson too. I near enough didn’t believe my own eyes when I saw him sittin’ there in the Lantern Lady. In fact I didn’t believe it, as rough as he looked, but thought it the oddest coincidence, until he spoke. It was his voice, sure enough, and far too cultured for a rough sailor. ‘Sides, two men can’t look and sound so much alike unless they’re twins.”   
  
“Very well-reasoned, Constable Thomas. I commend you.” Holmes shifted impatiently. “You have Watson safe?”  
  
“At my own rooms, sir, with my sister and mother looking after him, and a doctor too by now, I hope. He’s in a fairly bad way, I’m afraid.” He looked around again and lowered his voice still further. “There’s a bad lot looking for him, too. A Captain Basil was here not an hour before you, asking after the fake name he was under. Ah, I see you recognize the name. He’s got quite the reputation in these parts, and in London too, I wager.”  
  
“I know him,” Holmes murmured. “Now take me to Watson, if you would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted July 27, 2018.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who do not remember, "Captain Basil" is an alias used by Sherlock Holmes.
> 
> Originally posted July 29, 2016


End file.
